


Devastatingly Pleasurable

by perdiccas



Category: Heroes - Fandom
Genre: Dom/sub, M/M, Non-Penetrative Sex, Porn, Road Trip, Sexual Inexperience, Zane!Sylar
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2008-11-16
Updated: 2008-11-16
Packaged: 2017-10-02 11:05:24
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,078
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5617
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/perdiccas/pseuds/perdiccas
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>'It's too late to be sorry now, Zane.' He's grinning wickedly, tweaking both of Sylar's nipples, and cruelly twisting the more abused of the two with a greater fervour. 'It's time to make it up to me.'</p>
            </blockquote>





	Devastatingly Pleasurable

‘Zane’

Mohinder’s voice barely penetrates Sylar’s consciousness. He’s been deeply asleep, ensconced in a nest of blankets with Mohinder’s warm body curled around his back. He doesn’t want to wake just yet and so he feigns continued sleep, ignoring Mohinder’s voice as it gets louder and more demanding.

‘Zane!’

Mohinder is speaking directly into his ear now. His accent sounds more clipped when he’s annoyed, Sylar had heard it several times as he swore at other drivers while in the car the day before. It sounds strange to hear Mohinder say Zane’s name in that tone after the breathless way he had panted Zane’s name last night.

‘Zane. Come on, Zane. Zane!’

Sylar wonders idly what could be so important. He doesn’t need to open his eyes to know how early it is. His internal clock has never failed him yet and Sylar can tell with every fibre of his being that it is far earlier, hours earlier probably, than the time he usually rises.

‘Zane!’

Mohinder isn’t giving up. He sounds exasperated now. Sylar considers giving in and admitting to being awake but then Mohinder’s hand is on his stomach, curving roughly up his chest and he holds his breath, waiting to see what Mohinder will do next.

He yelps in pain as Mohinder twists his nipple hard. Their heads nearly collide as Sylar sits abruptly, rubbing his chest with the heel of his hand. He glares at Mohinder, too taken aback and still too drowsy to form words sufficiently venomous to express what he is feeling. Mohinder arches an eyebrow, thoroughly unrepentant. ‘You’re awake. Finally.’

‘Morning, Mohinder,’ he says dryly. ‘Sleep well?’

‘Not really,’ Mohinder replies and there’s something there, something under his words that Sylar should understand but his head is still too clouded with sleep to decipher what it is that Mohinder is driving at. ‘Evidently you did. And in such a state too.’

Mohinder clucks his tongue as his nods at Sylar’s rumpled clothes. He looks down to find his t-shirt bunched around his armpits, his jeans are open, riding low on his hips. Sylar is embarrassed to see the bulge of his morning erection straining the fabric of his boxers, framed perfectly by the open teeth of his fly. His stomach is covered with the dried remains of his come. He wrinkles his nose at the sight, blushing at the spectacle of himself so debauched.

The memory comes back in a flash and he cringes, suddenly understanding the weight of Mohinder’s disapproving gaze. His cheeks burn hotter as he tries to convince himself that he is remembering incorrectly but his memory is eidetic and never wrong, as much as he wishes right now that it was.

Late last night, lounging on Mohinder’s motel bed as they talked about nothing and everything, their mouths had come together in a clumsy awkward kiss that had soon turned heated. Mohinder had lain over him, pressing him into the mattress as he ground their hips together. He’d opened Sylar’s fly deftly with just one hand and pulled out his thick and aching cock. Sylar had thrust instinctively into his fist and when Mohinder moaned encouragement in his ear, he hadn’t held back, fucking Mohinder’s hand until he came. And then, with Mohinder kissing him, spunk still wet on his skin and Mohinder’s hard-on pressed demandingly against his hip, Sylar had fallen asleep.

Mohinder pinches his nipple again, twisting the point even as Sylar slaps at his hand.

‘That hurts!’ he grits out, licking his fingers and trying to soothe the reddened flesh.

‘I know.’ Mohinder’s voice is deceptively mild. ‘You deserve it though, for leaving me so unsatisfied last night and for snoring so loudly I can’t even get a bad night’s sleep in my own motel room.’

‘I’m sorry, I…’ Sylar’s not sure what he’s supposed to do. Should he offer to return the handjob now? Mohinder doesn’t really seem like he’s in the mood. Should he offer to leave and creep, shamed, back to his own cold room and his own cold bed? He doesn’t want to suggest it lest Mohinder agree.

He hadn’t meant to fall asleep so selfishly the night before but the orgasm Mohinder had milked from him with just a few quick strokes of his fist was more devastatingly pleasurable than anything Sylar had ever achieved with his own hand. He was certain his body had all but caved in on itself in the wake of such a thoroughly shattering experience.

Mohinder is tugging his shirt over his head and Sylar raises his arms to help. ‘It’s too late to be sorry now, Zane.’ He’s grinning wickedly, tweaking both of Sylar’s nipples, and cruelly twisting the more abused of the two with a greater fervour. ‘It’s time to make it up to me.’

His teeth replace his fingers, nibbling on Sylar’s skin and making him hiss. Just when Sylar is about to push Mohinder aside, to tell him that he doesn’t enjoy being hurt like this, Mohinder starts to lave his tongue over the swollen nipple and Sylar finds himself burying his hand in Mohinder’s hair and pressing his face closer to his chest. The pleasure seems all the greater when it follows on the heels of a pain almost too much to bear.

Mohinder’s hands are tugging at his jeans, and he lifts his hips obligingly to let Mohinder pull them roughly down his legs. He has to kick them away himself because Mohinder is kneeling up on the bed and looking down on him, splayed out on the sheets, naked, waiting and wanting. Mohinder's hand hovers over Sylar’s groin, pulling back a little when Sylar bucks his hips to try and make contact.

‘Please,’ he moans, but Mohinder shakes his head. He points to the dried semen flaking on Sylar’s skin.

‘I want to, Zane, but that’s disgusting.’

Sylar lets himself be pulled into the narrow bathroom. He reaches for the shower, to start the water, but Mohinder grabs his hands and pins them to his sides. Mohinder steps forward, pressing his body so forcefully to Sylar’s that Sylar stumbles backwards, landing heavily against the cold porcelain edge of the sink. He yelps in shock and jerks forward, unintentionally thrusting his hips along the thigh that Mohinder has worked between his knees.

‘Don’t move,’ Mohinder orders. He presses Sylar’s palms to the lip of the sink and curls his fingers until Sylar grips it. He nudges Sylar’s hips back with a roll of his own and finally steps back, allowing Sylar room to breathe when he lounges back against the sink, his ass perched on the rim.

Mohinder’s eyes hold his gaze for a long moment. He wants to speak, to ask what they’re doing. He wants to know what Mohinder wants, expects, needs him to do, but he’s not sure that Zane would be demanding enough to ask, so he waits awkwardly, self-conscious in his nudity.

There’s a draught in the bathroom and he tries to convince himself that that is why he is shivering. His nipples are hard, chest tightening as they draw up further and pebble. The hairs on the back of his neck are standing on end and as much as he wants to put it down to the chill in the air or the slowly warming sink pressed against his skin, Sylar knows that it is Mohinder’s unwavering scrutiny that is making him squirm.

He’s not used to feeling so exposed. Without band shirts and nervous banter between them, Zane seems hardly there at all and Sylar’s not so sure he likes the way that Mohinder has peeled away his masks. He’s not so sure that Mohinder likes what he sees under the harsh, uncompromising bathroom lights.

He’s blushing again, _goddammit_, but Mohinder doesn’t speak. He simply waits until Sylar’s cheeks feel burning hot and then his gaze flicks away. He looks Sylar up and down, following the path of his eyes with the gentle brush of his fingertips. Mohinder is hardly touching him but Sylar groans anyway, in relief at the tension finally breaking.

The sound seems indecently loud, reverberating in the small bathroom and Mohinder’s caress wavers for a moment. Sylar bites his lip, hard, to stop himself from begging. He doesn’t want Mohinder to stop, to be trapped again under that inscrutable stare. He closes his eyes to his inevitable fate and waits for Mohinder to move away, to leave him to clean himself of his filth and his shame, to punish him for his unwitting faux-pas the night before.

Instead, Mohinder’s body is pressing to his again. Sylar can feel the hot outline of Mohinder’s hard cock against his hip. Mohinder is grinding against him and Sylar wonders briefly if Mohinder is mocking him, parodying his wanton actions from earlier but he hears Mohinder’s breath as it hitches and he catches the unfiltered moan that spills from his lips against Sylar’s ear. Sylar knows then that Mohinder is indulging his own arousal.

He pulls back a little and drags his hand more firmly down Sylar’s front. Mohinder gropes him from the hollow of his throat to the base of his cock, circling under it to gently squeeze his balls. He tugs lightly on Sylar’s sac, then more insistently until Sylar opens his eyes and shyly meets Mohinder’s.

‘You’ve made quite a mess, haven’t you, Zane?’ he murmurs and Sylar finds that he is whimpering in agreement.

With one hand still rolling Sylar’s balls, Mohinder brings the other trace through Sylar’s pubic hair, to tug at the matted mess of curls in his groin and low on his stomach. Sylar doesn’t want to watch. He doesn’t want to have the evidence of his inadequacy pointed out to him but with a masochistic fascination, he finds that he cannot look away.

Mohinder’s touch roams upwards, pausing at every semen stain on Sylar’s skin until Sylar’s stomach is twisting with humiliation and disgust. The dried spunk clings unflatteringly to his body, pulling the skin of his abdomen tight where the hot ribbons have been smeared in his sleep. He doesn’t understand how Mohinder can stand to touch such filth.

The fondling hand on his balls is unrelenting. Sylar thinks that he shouldn’t be getting so aroused, not while he’s being examined like this, degraded by his own shortcomings, but he is. He doesn’t understand it but he recognises the familiar tug in his gut and the prickle in his skin as his dick begins to fill. Mohinder’s hand is at his abused nipple now and, when he pinches it again, much lighter than before but still hard enough to sting, Sylar finds that he gets achingly hard more quickly than he ever has before.

He has to cling to the sink more fiercely. His palms are sweaty and his hands slip a little against the porcelain. He doubles his grip until his biceps are trembling, convinced that the support of the sink is all that is stopping him from collapsing, weak-kneed, to the floor under Mohinder’s assault. He’s panting. His throat is dry and he feels light headed as Mohinder continues to twist and pull at his nipple, to palm his balls and press his sac up against his body.

When Mohinder suddenly kisses the crook of his neck, mouth sinfully hot against his sweat-damp skin, Sylar cannot hold back. He lets out an embarrassingly strangled cry. Mohinder chuckles softly at the sound, pulls harshly on his nipple one final time and then the torture ceases. Sylar sighs, half in relief and half in regret at the sudden absence of Mohinder’s confusing touch, that adroit mix of pleasure and pain.

Mohinder runs the back of his hand along the length of Sylar’s straining erection, each knuckle pressing firmly against his too-tight skin until Mohinder has his cock trapped, flat against Sylar’s stomach. He’s dripping pre-come, adding fresh, wet stains to his already soiled skin. Heat flashes through him as Mohinder rubs him and it takes all his self-control to hang back and let Mohinder do as he pleases. He’s bigger than Mohinder, stronger too, even without his abilities, and it would take nothing at all to throw Mohinder back against the tiled wall of the bathroom, to take possession of his mouth and his body. But somehow that thought is less appealing than remaining where he is, obediently unmoving as Mohinder grinds against him.

They are both breathing heavily when Mohinder finally breaks away. Sylar glances slyly at Mohinder’s crotch. His cock twitches when he spots the damp patch seeping into the cotton of Mohinder’s underwear where the material is stretch taut over the head of his dick. Sylar feels slightly more comfortable in his own arousal to know that Mohinder is feeling the same chest constricting heat coursing through his body. Mohinder is studying his stomach again. He grins at what he sees, seemingly satisfied with the fresh mess he has induced Sylar to make.

‘Let’s clean you up,’ he purrs, nibbling at the lobe of Sylar’s ear when he groans in agreement.

Sylar expects to be dragged to the shower now. He’s trembling in anticipation. He wants to feel Mohinder’s hands, slick with soap and hot water, sliding over his body and he realises that he has been on tenterhooks waiting for this moment since Mohinder had pulled him into the bathroom. But when he lifts his hands from where they have been placed to grab at Mohinder’s hips and let himself be guided to the shower, Mohinder takes them and puts them firmly back in place.

‘Don’t move,’ he repeats.

Before Sylar can give voice to his confusion, Mohinder turns on the tap behind him. Water splashes hotly against the small of his back. He is being pinned in place by Mohinder’s body. Their legs are tangled together. Mohinder’s arms have snaked around his, trapping his biceps close to his torso, preventing him from turning around and watching Mohinder’s hands as they wring out a washcloth in the sink behind him. He jumps a little at the first touch of the damp terrycloth against his spine. He’d been expecting it, but it is disconcerting nonetheless when he cannot see the movement of Mohinder’s hands, when he cannot predict exactly when or where the next touch will come.

Mohinder is looking over his shoulder, watching himself in the mirror as he cleans Sylar’s back with great, sweeping, circular motions. The soap is cheap and it leaves his skin feeling too dry. The scent is almost chemical, clinical like antiseptic as if it they are in a hospital not a motel. The washcloth is thin and barely absorbent at all. Mohinder is forced to stop frequently to rinse it clean, rewet and wring it. Mohinder doesn’t seem to mind the slow pace though, unlike Sylar who is starting to shake where he stands. This time he doesn’t even attempt to blame the shivers and the goose pimples on the cold. It is Mohinder’s touch that it reducing him to this and Mohinder’s touch alone.

He lets his head loll forward, resting his forehead against Mohinder’s shoulder as Mohinder cleans up his spine. The washcloth is at the back of his neck, wiping the sweat from behind his eyes and ruffling at his hairline before gliding down again and dunking loudly into the cooling basin of water. Mohinder scrubs his skin roughly, using the nap of the cloth to scour him raw until he is left with pink, stinging flesh in the wake of Mohinder’s attentions.

Mohinder sweeps the cloth over the top curve of Sylar’s ass. Sylar can feel Mohinder’s palm through the cloth as he cups and fondles him. He can feel the tips of Mohinder’s fingers as he forces the washcloth into the crack of his ass and cleans between his cheeks as much as he can with Sylar’s ass forced up against the sink, muscles clenching against the sudden, undignified assault. Just as Sylar is about to protest that the touch is too intimate, too emasculating, too invasive, Mohinder takes his hands away. If he has noticed Sylar’s discomfort, Mohinder doesn’t mention it.

The pipes gurgle as Mohinder drains the sink behind him. Fresh, hot water splashes against his skin. This time, while Mohinder lathers the cloth, he presses the length of their bodies together, arches his back and rubs himself firmly against Sylar. Sylar can feel the hard points of Mohinder’s nipples against his chest and he gasps when Mohinder rises up on his toes, deliberately sliding their chests together until their nipples catch on one another’s and they both cry out.

Sylar rolls his hips in return but as soon as he does, Mohinder’s body is gone and the cloth is there. It slides over his chest, dampening his chest hair and skimming down, tracing the lines of his ribs. Mohinder works quicker now. He’s deftly scrubbing the flaking spunk from Sylar’s body, sluicing him down efficiently rather than luxuriating in the process as he had before. Sylar thinks that Mohinder must be feeling the strain of this tease as much as he is. His cock is aching and his balls feel too tight and too heavy. His whole body is throbbing with want and need and desire, and all Sylar can focus on is the thrumming of blood in his groin.

Mohinder is cleaning his inner thighs, moving back to let Sylar spread his legs to the touch. He seems to regain control of himself, slowing the pace of his caresses again. Sylar curses when Mohinder cleans his balls and when Mohinder reaches further back, scouring again along the crease of his ass and around his hole, Sylar finds himself pressing into the touch despite himself.

More soap, more water, more grinding, groping and groaning, and then Mohinder is wrapping the washcloth and his hand around Sylar’s cock. He cleans Sylar’s dick with long, smooth strokes from root to tip. He rubs the corner of the cloth attentively over the head, wiping away the pre-come from his slit, clicking his tongue when more leaks out to take its place.

Soon, Mohinder drops all pretences and begins to pump his cock in earnest. He bites at Sylar’s tortured nipple, and presses the pad of his thumb to the more neglected one. His teeth are blunt but he worries the hardened flesh insistently, pulling, sucking and nipping until it's flushed and swollen, red, angry and throbbing at even the softest stream of Mohinder’s breath.

Mohinder’s jaw slackens and the hand on Sylar’s dick tightens. He tugs at Sylar’s cock more roughly, moaning in encouragement when Sylar thrusts into his fist. The washcloth has long since fallen to the ground. It’s a cold, damp lump against Sylar’s instep and he presses his foot to the unpleasantly wet material to try and dispel his rising arousal before it reaches a peak he cannot contain.

It seems he needn’t have bothered because Mohinder is suddenly squeezing the tip of his cock, fingers lodged just below the crown, not tight enough to hurt but tight enough to make his breathing become sharp and laboured as he tries to squirm away from the hold. Mohinder keeps him still with an iron grip on his hip. Sylar feels his dick soften a little and the warmth between his legs, before swirling and heady, now plateaus as Mohinder refuses to stroke him off.

‘Mohinder?’ he asks. He doesn’t want to beg. He doesn’t mean for his voice to whine so much or to sound so weak and broken, but his body betrays him and intentions mean nothing. He’s pleading with his words, with his arching, aching, shivering body and with his eyes, desperately searching Mohinder’s face to try and decipher the meaning behind his abrupt actions. ‘Mohinder? Please.’

‘Want to come?’ he asks. His lips are pressed to Sylar’s neck, and he growls the words against the hinge of his jaw, teeth scraping and catching on Sylar’s stubble.

‘Yes,’ Sylar whimpers. ‘Please,’ he adds when Mohinder doesn’t immediately start to jerk him off once more. ‘Oh god, Mohinder, please!’

Maybe that’s all Mohinder needed to hear because he closes his fist around Sylar’s cock and squeezes lightly. ‘You want to come?’ he asks again.

‘Yes,’ Sylar hisses through gritted teeth. Mohinder’s grip is too loose. There isn’t enough friction to be remotely satisfying and Mohinder has him trapped in place, barely able to move his hips at all to speed up the pace. Mohinder is kissing him. He parts his lips instinctively, lets Mohinder’s tongue slip into his mouth, and lets Mohinder pull at his bottom lip with his teeth.

‘No,’ Mohinder mumbles against his mouth. His hand drops from his cock. Mohinder is using both hands now to keep Sylar’s hips firmly pressed against the sink, preventing him from rutting against Mohinder’s thigh and finishing himself off in the face of Mohinder’s rejection. ‘I don’t think you deserve to come, do you, Zane?’

Sylar’s mind is reeling and his body is screaming to be touched. He knows that Mohinder is only role-playing. The man is almost inhumanely caring, Sylar had found as they spent they day in the car together. Mohinder is always considerate, always solicitous. It would only take one word from Sylar, the slightest indication that he doesn’t want to play this game or a mere hint that Mohinder has misread the situation and made poor, bashful Zane uncomfortable, and he knows that Mohinder will be on him, apologising with his lips and his kisses. But the truth of the matter is that Mohinder hasn’t misread the situation and despite the overwhelming throb in his groin, Sylar finds himself more intrigued by how this will all play out than he is overcome with his desire to orgasm.

‘Hmm, Zane? Do you think you deserve to come?’

‘No,’ Sylar whispers sadly. Mohinder kisses him, a gentle brush of the lips to reward him for his confession.

‘No,’ he repeats. ‘No, you don’t. You’ve been bad, haven’t you?’

He cards his fingers through Sylar’s pubic hair and up, following the trail to Sylar’s navel and higher until his fingers are at his nipple once more, tweaking the nub to remind Sylar of just how bad and selfish he has been. The right side of his chest is on fire with an exquisite pain, centred and radiating from his used and deliciously abused nipple. Sylar groans. He nods his head in acknowledgement. He has been so much worse than Mohinder knows.

‘You’ve been bad, haven’t you?’ he asks more vehemently this time, demand a verbal answer as he tugs roughly at the hair at the base of Sylar’s skull, forcing his chin up so that their eyes meet.

‘I’ve been bad,’ Sylar admits. ‘So bad,’ he says, body quivering as he thinks of the things he has done, things that Mohinder would never imagine him, Zane, capable of. He tries to lean in, to capture Mohinder’s lips in a kiss but Mohinder’s hand fists more tightly in his hair and he stays just out of Sylar’s reach. The words haven’t been as appeasing this time and something flashes in Mohinder’s eyes, annoyance, perhaps that Sylar has given in so easily or at the way he tried to take back control with a kiss.

‘You’re going to make it up to me, aren’t you, Zane?’ Mohinder’s lips are close enough that Sylar can feel them move against his mouth when Mohinder speaks.

‘Yes,’ he hisses. The word catches in his throat and he swallows audibly, suddenly uncertain of what it is he is committing himself to. Sylar can feel Mohinder smile at the hitch in his voice, at the sudden tremble in his body as he nervously clutches at the sink.

‘Yes,’ Mohinder agrees. He peppers Sylar’s lips with quick, butterfly kisses and then kisses him more deeply, sucking softly at his lips as he groans another yes into Sylar’s mouth. He brings his hands to Sylar’s face, cupping his jaw in both palms, rubbing along his cheekbones with his thumbs. ‘Such a beautiful mouth,’ he whispers. ‘Such a beautiful man,’ he adds with a smile, kissing the tip of Sylar’s nose.

He takes Sylar by the hand and leads him back into the bedroom. Sylar watches, standing still and silent as Mohinder finally removes his boxer-briefs, sliding them down narrow hips and kicking them away. His cock bobs between his legs with the movement, dark, thick and glistening at the tip. ‘Like that?’ Mohinder asks when he sees Sylar staring.

Sylar nods, catching himself and saying, ‘Yes,’ just in time.

‘Touch it,’ Mohinder offers.

He pulls Sylar closer, covering his hand with his own when Sylar reaches out shakily to caress him. He keeps their mouths together, kissing lightly and breathing into one another’s mouths as he guides Sylar’s hand on his dick. It doesn’t take Sylar long to understand how Mohinder likes to be touched. It is both barely different from touching himself and scarcely the same at all. Mohinder breath starts to quicken, his eyes slide shut and he pulls out of their kiss to groan at the way Sylar is jacking is cock.

‘So good,’ he mutters. ‘I knew you’d be good, Zane.’

Sylar flushes a little with pride, prouder still that Mohinder doesn’t so much as suspect who it is he is really with, who it is who is pleasuring him so skilfully. He thinks Mohinder looks glorious like this, teeth catching on his bottom lip, now swollen full and plump from their kisses. His skin is covered in a sheen of sweat, the light glimmering off the damp dips and crests of his muscles. His eyes are dark with lust, heavy lidded and down turned as he unabashedly watches Sylar’s hand on his dick.

Mohinder groans more loudly and then pulls Sylar’s hand away with a dazed smile. ‘That’s good, Zane,’ he assures him, even as he steps back from his touch. ‘You’re going to keep being good for me, aren’t you?’

‘Yes,’ Sylar says, stepping closer, following Mohinder as he backs towards the bed.

Mohinder’s knees catch on the mattress and he sits roughly, grasping at Sylar’s hips in surprise to steady himself. He tugs Sylar closer and kisses the groove of his hip, and then the very tip of his cock before pulling downward until Sylar kneels between his spread thighs.

Sylar is suddenly nervous. He’s never done this before. He understands the theory of course. The technique isn’t difficult to comprehend but Mohinder’s cock looks bigger swaying before his nose than it ever felt in his hand. Sylar cracks his jaw unconsciously. He glances up and gasps to find Mohinder staring down at him intently, eyes narrowed. Sylar wonders if he has done something wrong. He has been waiting for some signal, some encouragement or instruction from Mohinder but perhaps he was meant to have started already and Mohinder will punish him in some way for his delay.

He is blushing harder now, cursing his own inexperience. He might be able to fumble his way passably through the act itself but it seems as if he’s already bungled the etiquette, and his mind goes blank of any words he might say to let Mohinder know he needs some guidance, some clue as to where he is expected to start. It doesn’t help to think that Zane would be just flustered and that Mohinder likely doesn’t suspect a thing. Sylar doesn’t want to admit to having anything in common with the Zane of his creation.

Sylar kisses Mohinder’s inner thigh simply to do something. Mohinder drags his fingers through his hair, curls a hand around the back of his neck and nudges him gently to keep kissing. He works his way up Mohinder’s legs, his hands gripping convulsively on Mohinder’s knees as he sucks and licks at Mohinder’s soft skin. He buries his nose in the crease where Mohinder’s thigh meets his leg. He breathes his scent in deeply, taking sidelong looks at Mohinder’s cock. It looks no less imposing the closer he gets and he sidesteps his final destination by licking experimentally at Mohinder’s balls.

Mohinder moans, long and low at the swipe of his tongue, so Sylar does it again. He laps at the loose, wrinkled skin, feeling out the size and shape of Mohinder’s testicles with the tip of his tongue. He sucks carefully at the skin between them, growing more confident when he feels the hand on his neck clench more tightly. Mohinder’s other hand comes up to stroke absently against his cheek. He moves a little higher and tilts his head to the side. He kisses the base of Mohinder’s dick quickly then stretches his mouth, testing his ability to widen his lips around Mohinder’s girth before he reaches Mohinder’s tip and makes any failure on his part all the more embarrassing.

He sucks on the side of Mohinder’s cock. He can feel the thick vein on the underside throbbing against his tongue. Mohinder’s skin tastes different here than on his thighs. It’s saltier and the musk in his scent is stronger. The corners of Sylar’s lips are burning with the stretch already and instead of feeling more confident, Sylar feels only more anxious thinking of Mohinder’s suffocating length pressing more fully between his lips.

Sylar sits back on his knees and wipes his mouth on the back of his hand. ‘Mohinder, I’ve never…’ he starts softly, hating himself for his humiliating confession, hating Mohinder for putting him in a position where he needs to confess. But Mohinder cuts him off with a deep, possessive kiss before he can speak the words.

‘Shh, Zane. It doesn’t matter,’ he mutters soothingly. They kiss for a long while, Mohinder’s hands roaming through his hair, brushing over his cheeks and neck and shoulders. When they finally break apart, panting heavily, Sylar nuzzles his face against Mohinder’s palm. ‘You can do this, Zane,’ Mohinder whispers. ‘I know you can. Please try?’

Sylar hesitates but Mohinder is begging just as much as he had begged earlier. He doesn’t want the added shame of leaving Mohinder unsatisfied for a second time. So he nods, barely breathing the word _yes_ as he inches deeper between Mohinder’s legs.

‘Good boy,’ Mohinder moans. He tilts Sylar’s chin up and holds his gaze as he takes Sylar’s left hand and sloppily licks his palm. He shows Sylar how to wrap his palm around his base, how to adjust the angle of his cock and when he brings his lips to his tip, Mohinder lets him kiss it gently, rub his mouth against the head and tongue at the ridge for as long he likes.

Sylar feels like he has done nothing at all but Mohinder is groaning loudly, whispering Zane’s name and telling him over and over how good it feels to have his lips on his dick. He glances up constantly to check Mohinder’s face and is unfailingly met with the same pleasured expression Mohinder had worn while Sylar stroked him off. Encouraged, Sylar lets the head slide between his lips and holds it there, weighing it on his tongue. He sucks a little, but has to pull off as salty, bitter pre-come floods his mouth. The taste isn’t entirely unpalatable, but Sylar finds it hard to swallow and splutters a little against Mohinder’s leg.

‘Ok?’ Mohinder asks breathlessly.

Sylar kisses his cock again in reply. He refuses to admit defeat and collects as much of the wetness from Mohinder’s slit as he can, forcing himself to hold the pre-come on his tongue. He rolls the taste around his mouth until he gets accustomed to Mohinder’s flavour. When he sucks Mohinder back between his lips, he finds that he can keep him there for longer. His jaw still hurts and his mouth still feels impossible full as he grunts embarrassingly through his nose to try to breath but at least he isn’t gagging anymore at the taste on the back of his tongue.

As inexpert as he may be, he must be doing something right because Mohinder is squirming beneath him. He’s started rolling his hips and Sylar takes the hint, bobbing his head and sliding his fist up and down. He can’t quite manage the coordination needed to have his hand and mouth meet and when the movements of Mohinder’s hips get more exaggerated and his groans get louder, quicker and more broken, Sylar lets his hand fall away altogether, concentrating instead on sucking Mohinder as best he can.

‘Yes, Zane. Oh, fuck, that’s good. Please! Yes! Don’t stop… So close.’

Mohinder’s fingers are digging into the back of Sylar’s neck. He’s not rolling his hips now; Mohinder is thrusting, be it ever so gently, into Sylar’s mouth and fucking his face. Sylar’s hands scrabble at Mohinder’s hips but it makes no difference to the lazy in-out push of Mohinder’s cock between his lips. Mohinder is holding his head in place, one hand behind him on the bed, bracing himself as his hips lift off the mattress. Sylar finds that all he can do is open his mouth wider and concentrate on breathing.

The hand in his hair relaxes but Sylar doesn’t move, held in place instead by the constant litany of admiration that is falling from Mohinder’s lips. He’s so good, Mohinder tells him, and his mouth is hotter, wetter, tighter and more pleasurable than any Mohinder has been in before. Sylar closes his eyes and lets the words wash over him. He feels warm all over and not just from his arousal. Mohinder’s words, the need in them that sounds ripped from Mohinder’s very core makes him feel special, wanted. The cock in his mouth is moving quicker and he leans into it, letting Mohinder go deeper into his mouth than he has before.

He thinks for a moment he has made the wrong move because Mohinder’s hand is suddenly back, clamping around his neck. But Mohinder thrusts in deep and hard, with quick, sharp snaps of his hips that follow no steady rhythm. He’s hitting the back of Sylar’s throat and it hurts. His mouth is dry by now and he struggles to swallow. Mohinder’s thumb is pressing painfully at the hinge of his jaw to remind him not to lose focus and accidentally bite. Sylar’s throat feels rubbed raw and he’s not sure how much more he can take. His eyes are watering and Mohinder only roughly brushes the tears away, whimpering under his breath, ‘so close, so close, so close.’

Finally he comes, jerking and pulsing in Sylar’s mouth. He tries to swallow but Mohinder is pressing his face to his groin, his nose crushed painfully against his pelvic bone. More spunk dribbles from his lips than he manages to gulp down around Mohinder’s cock. He’s breathing heavily through his nose and he knows that if Mohinder doesn’t let him pull away he’ll start to hyperventilate. Already he is beginning to feel light headed and sick to the pit of his stomach that he might yet make a fool of himself. One more spurt of semen in his mouth and Mohinder’s body relaxes. His hands smooth Sylar’s hair absently as Sylar leans back.

Sylar is coughing, spluttering when each new cough irritates his already painful throat and makes him cough some more. His eyes haven’t stopped watering and he knows that Mohinder’s spunk is smeared all over his lips and chin. He’s finding it hard to catch his breath and the quicker and more shallow his breathing becomes, the more nauseating he starts to find the taste of Mohinder coating his tongue. He is so lost in trying to control his own body that he barely notices that Mohinder has slid to the floor beside him.

‘You’re ok, Zane,’ he whispers. ‘It’s all ok, just breathe.’

The words are trite and meaningless, but Mohinder’s hands rubbing his back and chest, and Mohinder’s lips kissing his forehead softly and nuzzling against his cheek are enough to ground him. Sylar feels his pulse slow and his breathing settle down. He tries to wipe his face, mortified at the state he must be in and knowing full well that the too hot blush rising in his cheeks can only make him look worse, but Mohinder stops him. He kisses along the tear tracks that stain his cheeks, using his tongue to lap away the wetness. He seals his work with a light kiss to each of Sylar’s closed lids.

Mohinder wipes his thumb across Sylar’s chin, scraping up the come that clings to his stubble. When Mohinder presses it gently to his lips, Sylar’s mouth opens reflexively and he sucks it clean without thinking.

‘Such a good boy,’ Mohinder whispers against Sylar’s temple as he kisses him softly there.

Mohinder’s the one that has just come, and Sylar’s the one with a cock that’s hard, aching and ignored but Sylar still feels sated and thoroughly exhausted. When Mohinder pulls him close in a tight embrace, he readily falls into it, resting his head on Mohinder’s shoulder and tucking his nose against the crook of Mohinder’s neck. If Mohinder’s surprised by his sudden affection or off-put by the way he clings to his slender body, then he doesn’t show it. He seems to never tire of telling Sylar how good he has been, how pleased he has made Mohinder and how proud. Soon, Sylar can’t distinguish the words, just the tone of Mohinder’s voice, soft and low, is enough.

Sylar relaxes into Mohinder’s arms. He’s slumped ungracefully against Mohinder’s body but Mohinder doesn’t seem to mind supporting both their weights as they kneel on the floor. Mohinder’s hands stroke his back in long, smooth arcs. It is only when Sylar’s body stops shaking that he realises that he has been trembling at all.

Sylar doesn’t know how long he stays enclosed in Mohinder’s embrace, listening to the wordless sounds of comfort that Mohinder is mumbling in his ears. Gradually, he starts to feel the strain in his legs from kneeling for so long and the synthetic carpet beneath him begins to scratch and irritate his skin. He shifts a little to try and get more comfortable but Mohinder helps him to stand instead, tumbling them onto the bed when they find their legs too weak to hold them.

They crawl under the covers and Sylar hesitates. He is on the verge of snuggling against Mohinder’s side but he feels self-conscious now. He isn’t sure what this is that they’re doing and when or if the game Mohinder has been playing has ended or whether it has somehow become reality. He isn’t sure if the embrace he had languished in on the floor will be allowed now that they’re on the bed. The mechanics of sex have been easy enough to master but he needs to follow Mohinder’s lead to understand what it is that he is meant to do with his emotions. Mohinder seems to register his unease and kisses him reassuringly, guiding him down until his head rests against Mohinder’s chest. Shyly, Sylar slips his arms around Mohinder’s middle and when Mohinder doesn’t protest, he holds him a little tighter.

Sylar’s head rises and falls with the steady rhythm of Mohinder’s breathing. Mohinder is lazily caressing his face and Sylar estimates that he lies against Mohinder obediently for a full five minutes before he can no longer ignore the fullness of his own erection. He squirms against Mohinder, grinding into his hip lightly and then more wantonly until he is all but humping Mohinder’s thigh. Mohinder slaps his ass lightly.

‘Zane,’ he warns.

Sylar freezes. He’s holding his breath in anticipation, mind overcome with thoughts of how Mohinder will choose to make him come – with his hands, with his mouth, with his ass? But Mohinder does nothing at all and Sylar lets out his breath in a long, frustrated sigh. He tries, he really does, to wait until Mohinder takes control but the throbbing in his balls is no longer pleasurable. It is genuinely starting to hurt to be denied for so long. So he circles his hips again, rutting against Mohinder and closing his eyes to the disapproval that he knows he find if he meets Mohinder’s gaze. This time, Mohinder grips his hips firmly and stills their movement himself.

‘You’ve been so good, Zane,’ he admonishes. ‘Don’t misbehave now.’

But even Mohinder’s words can’t stop him from trying to buck into Mohinder’s hands. He tries to roll onto his back, to put some space between them and let himself rock up into the air if he isn’t allowed to thrust against Mohinder or the bed, but Mohinder rolls with him, covering his body with his own. Mohinder pins his hands above his head, resting his full weight on Sylar’s body. Sylar’s chest burns with the strain of trying to breathe and his cock twitches, trapped flat against his stomach between their bodies.

Mohinder is leaving biting kisses up and down his neck, and along his collarbone. He’s rubbing himself teasingly along the length of Sylar’s body and Sylar can feel Mohinder’s cock start to harden again as they rock together.

‘I shouldn’t reward your bad behaviour,’ he says conversationally. Sylar’s body tenses, stomach dropping at the thought that Mohinder might pinch his cock again and punish him once more. ‘But you were so good letting me fuck that gorgeous mouth of yours that I think I’ll let it go this time.’

Mohinder seems to be talking in riddles and Sylar’s mind, usually so quick to see how things work, is incapable of keeping up. He scolds Sylar for being too wanton and in the same breath rubs up against him, he promises Sylar he’ll get what he wants and promptly lifts himself away. Sylar’s whole front grows cold with loss as Mohinder rolls off him.

‘On your knees,’ he orders. Confused and apprehensive, Sylar obeys.

Mohinder’s hands are on his ass. He runs a finger down between his cheeks, teasing his crease and locating his asshole. He strokes over it and Sylar tenses. He hasn’t done this before either and he’s not sure he likes the idea of getting fucked. Those times when he’s allowed himself to fantasise about doing this, he has always been the one fucking a nameless, faceless body. Mohinder’s pulling his ass cheeks apart and it’s on the tip of his tongue to say no, because the last thing Sylar wants to be is a nameless, faceless fuck but then Mohinder’s breath is ghosting hotly over his skin and all Sylar can do is moan.

Mohinder is licking at his asshole and it’s better than anything Sylar has ever imagined. He curls his tongue and sucks on the rim of muscle. He kisses Sylar there, again and again, alternating soft and firm, tongue and no tongue. He scrapes with his teeth and the stubble on his upper lip scratches too. Then, he is probing inside with a rigid tongue and Sylar tenses again. He wonders if he has hurt Mohinder when his muscles clamped down, because his tongue slides out wetly and he starts to lap again at Sylar’s puckered flesh. It’s not that it doesn’t feel good, it does, almost overwhelmingly so, but Sylar knows this is just a prelude for something more and no matter how amazing this is he doesn’t want things to go that far.

As if to prove Sylar right, Mohinder’s spit damp fingers have joined his lips and tongue. They’re teasing at his hole, the tip of one dipping inside and rubbing his inner walls. Sylar jerks his hips away but Mohinder follows. He bites Sylar’s right cheek lightly, one hand snaking around to grope his chest and tug at his nipple once more before his lips resume their place against his entrance.

‘Stop,’ he whimpers. ‘I don’t want to.’

He has spoken so softly that Sylar isn’t sure Mohinder will hear him, but behind him, Mohinder’s body stills. He backs away slowly. The hand on Sylar’s chest sinks down to rub gentle circles to his stomach.

‘Zane?’ Mohinder asks and for the first time the false name makes Sylar’s skin crawl. Somewhere between waking and now, this has ceased to be a game and Sylar has stopped playing his role as Zane. He wants to shake Mohinder roughly, to make him say his real name but Zane is the only name Mohinder knows and the concern in his voice isn’t feigned.

‘I’m sorry,’ he groans. He lets Mohinder roll him over; lets Mohinder stretch out next to him and kiss his shoulder comfortingly. ‘I just… I don’t…’

Sylar doesn’t know what to say. He’s not sure why this is suddenly so awkward, why his chest suddenly feels tight in way that has nothing to do with burning arousal or Mohinder’s crushing bodyweight. All he knows is that his cock is throbbing and he wants to get off but not with Mohinder licking his ass, fingering him or fucking him. All he knows is that suddenly things are complicated where they weren’t before and that he has to concentrate on the power he’ll get when they meet Dale Smither tomorrow or he’ll start to wish he’d never followed Mohinder to this godforsaken two-horse town.

‘No, no, no,’ Mohinder is saying, eyes wide with guilt. ‘I’m sorry. God, Zane, I didn’t mean to push you. I shouldn’t have—’

‘It’s ok,’ Sylar tries to say but Mohinder is talking over him. Now they’re both babbling and apologising, lavishing accolades onto each other to reassure themselves that this hasn’t been one long misunderstanding. Then, they catch themselves and laugh together. They’re kissing again, lazily now like they did the night before and Sylar relaxes back against the sheets because somehow the tension has broken and things seem easy once more.

‘Fuck,’ Sylar grinds out when Mohinder moves against him and their cocks brush together.

Mohinder jumps back, but Sylar clutches at his biceps and stops him from fully pulling away. ‘It’s ok,’ he mutters. ‘But I really need to come.’

‘I can help with that,’ Mohinder says slowly. ‘If you want?’ he adds, nervously chewing at his bottom lip.

Sylar nods and pulls Mohinder down for a kiss. He hums approvingly against Mohinder’s lips when he feels Mohinder work a hand between their bodies and stroke him quickly from his nipples to his navel. Mohinder shifts a little above him, lining them up without breaking their kiss. He takes them both in his hand, sliding Sylar’s leaking pre-come over both their lengths. Mohinder jacks them quickly, twisting his wrist in a way that has Sylar crying out against his mouth. He’s too far gone to last but Mohinder doesn’t seem to mind, speeding up the pace of his strokes to match the ragged thrusts of Sylar’s hips.

Sylar arches off the bed, grinding himself up into Mohinder’s fist and roughly against Mohinder’s dick as he comes. He hears Mohinder swear as his spunk lands in long, thick stripes across Mohinder’s chest. Almost as if he is being rewarded for having waited so long, Sylar’s orgasm seems unending, his body bucking and spasming beneath Mohinder’s, shooting his spunk, harder and further than he had thought himself capable. He feels delirious with release and drowsy in his satisfaction, collapsing back bonelessly against the bed as his body finally stops tensing. Aftershocks are still twitching his hips as he hears Mohinder groan through his second orgasm.

Sylar laughs breathlessly to himself when he feels the hot splatter of Mohinder’s less impressive release on his thigh and he lets his gaze wander again to the mess he has made on Mohinder’s chest, drinking in the sight of Mohinder’s toned body, dripping with his come.

‘You look so sexy,’ he tries to say but his words are slurred and he can’t be sure that Mohinder can make out what he’s saying. His eyes feel heavy and he’s too sated to care to repeat himself. Mohinder is still hovering over him, seemingly unsure of what to do with himself so Sylar pulls him down, sweaty, sticky chest to his own and cuddles against him. Mohinder is playing with his hair again, saying something too softly for Sylar to hear but he understands the tone. He has heard it before as they kneeled on the floor. He curls himself around Mohinder’s body and falls asleep content.


End file.
